Lucky? Me, Draco, lucky? HA!
by PikaCheeka
Summary: A Draco Malfoy monologue using that dumb bs song. He is growing ever more angry with the image people create of him....Hard to explain. PG13 for language and very powerful angst.


This was originally a songfilk/fic for Lucky by Britney Spears. I since removed the lyrics, but kept the song.

And the Lucius in here may seem different then the one I normally write about. But remember, this is a different perspective, Draco does not know his father for real, as this explains with himself.

PG13 for major angst and language. Yes, I personally think this is my most angsty fic, and that's pretty bad. Heh heh

Lucky? Me, Draco, lucky? HA!

By PikaCheeka

I am Draco Malfoy, the perfect, evil, frighteningly-handsome Slytherin boy. The one who everyone loves and fears at the same time.

Every morning, it's the same old thing. I wake up to a House Elf, or Pansy, depending on where I am. Then I kick them out of the room and put on the most expensive clothes I own. Who cares if it's leather? Who cares if it's tight? Just make people stare more. Make people envy me more.

They don't care. Why should I?

'Cause I don't want to be the way they want me to.

Unable to help myself, I look into the mirror at the side of the dorm.

People look at me and whisper behind my back. "Isn't he damn lucky? Why does he sulk all the time? I mean, look, he's one of the richest wizards in the world, his father is a genius, his mother beautiful..."

Lucky? Me? HA!

I ignore them, I walk right by, holding my scowl, trying not to scream. I want to tell them that there is more to the world then all that. I don't care most of the time, but sometimes reality and depression takes over.

I know that someday my parents will get killed, or throw in jail. Then all the money will be given to me. And people will love me even more. Or is it just the money?

The mirror shows a boy. Handsome. Silver blonde hair, not spiky or flat, not a round cut, just jagged. Touching my collar in a few parts. Pale gray eyes that show hatred and anger always. Pale skin, pointed face, stubborn jaw, high cheekbones, slightly pointed ears.

A proud looking person.

Nobody ever knew the real me, nobody ever cares to know. For one thing, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs automatically hate and fear me because I'm a Slytherin. And the Slytherins worship me. Why? Because of my money, my power, and the girls my figure. They don't give a single crap about me behind this mask.

Some people look at me in disgust, wondering why I act so sad when I have everything everyone in this damn world wants. I want to tell them that I have nothing near everything in this world. If I did, I would have friends. Not just a fan club of boy-crazy girls following me everywhere and starring at me.

It's them I really hate. "O look, he's so cool! He's really rich, and he's going to be a Death Eater...And look at his body! I mean, he's so skinny and cute!"

I was sick, damnit. I nearly died a hundred times over to get this figure.

I scowled. The mirror scowled back. It shows my richness and arrogance right through.

My father says he understands me. Says that's how it was for him. But what does he know, really? He doesn't see how I'm treated. Treated like a toy that hates. Something to love for things on the outside, never bothering to look within. How many people go and rip something apart to see inside? Not many, and the ones that do hate me straight out because I'm rich and 'arrogant'.

Because my father is a Death Eater, one of the best. And my mother is a stupid movie star, casting in many muggle movies, then killing the director. Actually, she doesn't even kill them, Father does. People look at me and think I'm just like them. But I am not, and nobody cares.

What will happen when it all stops? I hope to find out soon. Not kill myself, although it would be easy with a house like mine. Jump off the roof, poison myself with all that stuff my father has, torture chambers, and the killing curse.

No, never kill myself, not that anybody would care. Mourn over for an hour, then get over it.

Because to them, I am not real.

To them, I'm just another pretty face.

I am growing to hate that face.

Lucky. Draco Malfoy is lucky...I hear that often. I say, "Why do you think I'm lucky?"

They look taken aback and say the same thing every time. "You greedy pig! You are rich, famous, and powerful! But no, Draco wants more!"

I don't want more, I want less.

There's more. "O, he's just like his father...handsome, smart, evil..." they say, smiling warily at me, wondering if I'm, going to pull a fast one and kill them then and there.

Maybe someday, for the hell of it, I will.

Just at the thought of killing somebody, I can see something new alight in my eyes.

I was pulled aside in Diagon alley the other day. Some freak from the Daily Prophet wanted to interview me, wanting to know about Voldemort. I told him to mind his own business and maybe he'd live a bit longer. My father killed him afterward, telling him of lay off his son, me.

The light of hatred for everything. That's really me. Why doesn't it show more?

I know that someday I will follow in my father's steps. Becoming a Death eater, killing people and following Voldemort. Then one day I'll screw up, get thrown in Azkaban. I'll rot there and go to Hell.

Maybe. That's what people want of me, might as well give them what I want. I don't even know what I want anymore. I'm completely bent. I don't want to be like that, but I'm being pushed, against my will. Soon, that's how I'll be. And I'll lose my soul, worse then anything a Dementor could do to me. For it would be I who swallowed it.

I want it to show more. I want people to not fall all over me. I want them to keep their distance. Hell, even I want to keep my distance.

I've got money, power, and fame. Why do I cry? Why do I hurt inside? Maybe it's because it's not my fame.

Draco, lucky? HA!

Maybe it's because people don't care about me.

Maybe it's because it's I don't care about myself.

Maybe it's because I don't want fame.

Draco Malfoy does not want fame.

I want to be normal.

And, hell, I'm going to be.

I looked at the mirror in sudden fury and smashed it. Blood ran from my hands and dripped on the floor. By the broken glass.

Black, arrogant blood.

The blood of a Malfoy.

I spat on the now ruined mirror. "That's what I think of you, Draco Malfoy."


End file.
